


Pitter-Patter

by XxThorleifxX



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cats, Cute, Feels, Gen, Hetalia, Pets, Short, norwegian forest cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 09:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18232754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxThorleifxX/pseuds/XxThorleifxX
Summary: Norway (Sigurd) is celebrating his national holiday when his household suddenly becomes bigger.





	Pitter-Patter

Emerging from the mountainous valley, the sun began its ascent into the Norwegian sky. Heavy clouds in the distance warned of a storm later on, but for now it was simply another morning, and the heavens were waking up. It was a special day, and such an occasion called for sun.

Dust particles danced in the light that filtered in through the window and grazed across the sleeping figure. Stirring, Sigurd rolled over and glanced at the clock on the bed stand.  _ 5.00  _ it read, making him want nothing more than to curl up further under the covers. What could he say? It was a summer morning in Oslo, he should have expected such things. Still, the early hour did not rest easy on his mind.

Incapable of reaching sleep again, he stretched, got up, and began making coffee.

His apartment wasn’t the fanciest. Filled mostly with furniture from IKEA, and rather bland in its color palette, it looked like the average Norwegian living space—simple, clean, and organized. Of course, this was not his only home. He had another apartment in Bergen that he preferred, as well as a farmhouse along the fjords where most of his dearest possessions were located. In addition to those, he owned a remote cabin in northern Norway. Various paintings and pictures hung on the walls, but what he was interested in at that moment was the calendar hanging on the door. He crossed off the date with a red pen, the ink cutting through the miniature flag he had drawn in the designated box for the seventeenth of May, 2005.

One hundred years could certainly fly by.

Independence, the Norwegian had discovered, was sweet. He planned to celebrate in entirety this year, which was why he had made the special trek to Oslo a bit ahead of time in order to avoid the traffic, just to be sure that he’d be in the city to celebrate the hundredth year of independence in the capital. As a personification, Sigurd had seen more centuries pass by than he cared to count, but this last century had been special. Difficult at times, yes, but for Norway, to know it was all in the past was comforting, and gave the future a hopeful outlook. As the rich coffee he loved so much ran down his throat he felt his senses replenish, and soon he was ready to celebrate.

Thankfully, Sigurd had always found the  _ bunad _ , the traditional folk costume of his country, rather fun to wear. It helped that he looked  _ fantastic _ in it, in his own opinion of course. The blonde man glanced at the flag he had brought along, rolled up properly in his suitcase. Pride swelled up in him as he remembered all the hardships it had endured, as well as all the events that it had never seen, those that happened before the current design had been invented. It represented a pride not only for the nation that he represented, but for himself as well. He was still standing. And he would continue to stand for many, many years to come.

After visiting the Royal Family and marching in the parade with a smile emblazoned across his face, Sigurd plopped onto his bed, surprisingly still sober. He would get properly drunk once he got home and could celebrate with his friends. But he’d asked to have the day in Oslo to himself, and wanted to remember it for a very long time.

The next day he woke up fairly early to begin the drive back home, a drive that, while not quite so long as it once was, still took a few hours to complete. A knot of excited dread bundled in his stomach as he rolled into his driveway, the knowledge that an onslaught of company would later arrive at his home weighing heavily on his mind. It was with a sigh that he brought in his luggage and began preparing the home for guests, only hoping that nothing would get too damaged or rowdy as the hours went by. 

Soon the doorbell rang, and the flood of visitors arrived. Surrounded by his closest and oldest friends, as well as some of his newer friends, Sigurd had been toasted and congratulated more times than he cared to count. Most of his guests did not leave until the next day, and in the morning the Norwegian awoke with a pounding headache. Peeling himself from his bed he made his way to the kitchen, where he prepared coffee for himself and any of the guests who were awake, sending them on their way with full thermoses. 

On his way outside to check on the barn he heard a soft  _ mewl _ ing. He halted immediately, his ears perked up and all of his senses engaged in searching for the origin of this sound. The steam from his coffee thermos rose in a billowing cloud, traipsing through the air with the majesty of the dancing northern lights as he waited for one more  _ meow _ to pierce the air, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement with a hawk’s keenness.

Having been an expert at tracking in his youth, it was not much longer before he found a mother cat and her kittens. Hidden next to a pile of hay inside the barn, it wasn’t difficult to reach them, but devastation hit him in the stomach as soon as he got near enough. The mother was dead, and most of the kittens were stillborn. All except one. Sigurd extracted the kitten and took it inside his home, carefully stroking its miniature head while it bawled away with all the strength in its mighty lungs. He found a basket and a towel that fit it, placing the kitten on top. Soon after, he found a hot-pad and placed it carefully under one of the layers of towel, along with his watch. It would serve to replicate the environment of being surrounded by its mother, and after a quick drive to the store, he was able to find a mixture to feed it. 

It was important not to develop too much of a bond. He would have to turn the kitten back to the wild once it had grown, and he suspected that he wouldn’t ever see it again afterwards.

Sigurd told that to himself over and over, knowing that even if he did allow this kitten to stay with him it would only be a handful of years before he would have to bury it. No, it was best to let the kitten return to the wild once it was big enough.

Although when he brought a bowl filled with the mixture to the kitten who immediately began blindly lapping it up, he couldn’t help but surrender part of himself to the tiny thing. It was ridiculous, he knew, and he dismissed it quickly, promptly leaving the room.

Later on in the day he returned to check on the kitten and found it fast asleep, the bowl empty. However, when Sigurd picked up the bowl he spotted the kitten’s round, amber eyes staring up at him. It must have been out in the barn for a few days before he had found it. After thinking back to the scene he had observed in the barn, he could surmise that the mother had been alive only up until recently, or the kitten would have died. There was simply no way that this kitten would have opened its eyes unless it was at least a week old. He would have to investigate later. For now, it was time to refill the bowl.

As he reached the kitchen and refilled the bottle his eyes snagged on the reflection of himself in the windows.  _ What am I doing? _ he asked himself, his eyebrows knitting together in contemplation.  _ I told myself I wouldn’t do this again. _ But there he was, doing it again. In only a glance the kitten had captured part of his heart. There was absolutely no way he could simply release it back into the wild, not after the amount of time it would take for it to be big enough to live on its own.

When he returned with the bowl he bent down to peer into the kitten’s eyes on its level. One of its paws reached up and landed on Sigurd’s cheek, pressing against his soft skin with the almighty power of a child’s poke.

A chuckle escaped from the Norwegian’s smiling lips. He picked up the kitten after returning the bowl to its place, holding the small creature against his chest and letting it reach up, claws extended, trying to pull itself up to Sigurd’s shoulder. Meanwhile, his free hand stroked the kitten’s head and back, making sure to keep the kitten from scaling his torso. The Norwegian held out the kitten, observing it under a tilted gaze, which the kitten replicated as it stared back at him. “You’re a pretty girl, aren’t you?” he said to her, lifting her a tad bit higher and smiling to himself as the kitten’s paws wrapped around his thumb. 

“Ah, I’m going to regret this,” he muttered as he brought the kitten back to his chest, nuzzling his nose against its soft, tawny fur. 

But he didn’t. Not that day, and not the next, nor any of the days after that. Not once did Sigurd regret keeping the kitten.

Her name was Runa. She was named this because of her elegant coat, upon which dark brown markings stretched over a rich tawny canvas, creating patterns and letters that were constantly moving, changing. As she filled into her adult size over the years these patterns only became more and more intricate, although tufts of cream-colored fur also appeared, one on the tip of her chin and another on her chest.

It was not long before the house was littered with toys and trinkets for Runa to play with, and the two of them grew to have an incredibly tight bond. Each night she would sleep next to or on top of Sigurd. Sometimes during the day she would crawl onto his shoulders and let him carry her around like that. Other days she proved to warm up his lap very well while reading or knitting. 

Sigurd raised her, trained her, and loved her. 

Although he has many more pets that he loves, Runa will always stick out to him as one of the first pets he allowed himself to have in a very long time. She will forever be the small kitten he found in his barn after celebrating his national holiday whose eyes greeted the world by meeting with his. Even though her fur can get everywhere and she has the tendency to bring him a dead rodent as a “present” every now and then, he loves her as he would a child, and she loves him too.


End file.
